Gospel Story Finder

One day I came home tired from work and threw myself on our lower bunk bed. Looking up, I saw a paper posted under the bed above me. It said: “I Know That My Redeemer Lives!” My brother Jonathan had put it there. How close children are to the heavens that even a Primary child can be an instrument in sending a message from God to comfort a troubled heart and mind!

This testimony sustained me when I realized I just couldn’t provide for our needs and we had to leave our home. Jonathan was taken to live with my mother’s side of the family, but Ephraim and I chose to stay with our other grandparents because they were Church members. In their home we arose early to do chores before school and then cared for our grandfather late into the night. It was exhausting. However, the Lord was mindful of us, and we stayed close to the Church.

Now, years later, I still have the picture of those words from above my bed in my heart and mind. That message has helped my brother Ephraim and me in our years of service as full-time missionaries and in striving now to live celestial marriages.

I remember my beloved grandmother, Mary Caroline Roper Finlinson, making homemade soap on the farm. The soap had a very pungent aroma and was almost as hard as a brick. There was no money to buy soft, sweet-smelling soap. On the farm, there were many dusty, sweat-laden clothes to be washed and many bodies that needed desperately a Saturday night bath. If you had to bathe with that homemade soap, you could become wonderfully clean, but you smelled worse after bathing than before. I have since developed a daily appreciation for mild, sweet-scented soap.

Elder Thomas Matthew Marinho is making an impact as the first service missionary in my community of Portugal. It was a time when young service missionaries were not widely recognized, so this event remains etched in my memory. One of his assignments was specific yet profound — to greet everyone at Institute and Seminary activities with genuine warmth, expressed through heartfelt hugs.
The sight of eager youth patiently awaiting Elder Marinho‘s embrace before the day‘s activities was both moving and heartwarming. However, the true depth of Elder Marinho‘s service revealed itself in a poignant moment during one of these gatherings. A young man, a friend of someone attending, was invited to the Multi-Stake Activity day to learn about the Church. As with the others, Elder Marinho met him as he entered and gave him one of his big hugs. As he was taken aback, the others explained that Eder Marinho was a Service Missionary and one of his assignments is to greet those attending lessons and activities.
I attended a subsequent testimony meeting several weeks later where this visiting young man shared an unexpected revelation: he had just been baptised a member of the Church. He said he felt compelled to join the Church after attending this Multi-Stake Activity. What had made the difference for him? Elder Marinho‘s hugs. He emphasized that a church recognizing and valuing individuals for their capabilities, rather than dwelling on limitations, was undoubtedly the true Church of Jesus Christ. The power of that moment, where everyone felt the Spirit so strongly, affirmed not only the truthfulness of the Church but also the divine calling of Elder Marinho to touch hearts that seemed untouchable by others.
This experience illuminated the profound impact service missionaries can have, transcending their limitations. Their unique abilities possess a strength that resonates in the moment and echoes for years, moving hearts and uplifting spirits. My gratitude extends to Elder Marinho for his kind and loving service, to his parents for instilling such love and vision in him, and to the leaders who, in true Saviour-like fashion, collaborated to enable him to serve and touch the hearts of everyone around him.

Not long after I started using this notebook, I was called and set apart as the Young Women president in my ward, and my notebook began to fill up with thoughts regarding each of my thirty young women. I served in this calling for fifteen months before our family moved out of state for work.

In our new home, my notebook started to fill up with thoughts regarding my new ward members, neighbors, and coworkers. Over the years there were times when I would have a good thought and was able to carry it out immediately. And there were other times when the timing of the thought made it impossible for me to do so.

Some years later I shared this experience in a Sunday meeting back in my home state. A young mother who had been one of my Young Women ten years earlier was present. She leaned over to me afterward and asked, “Am I in that book?”

“Yes,” I responded.

“I knew it!” she said. “Because when you started [doing this specific thing], it changed my life.”

I was so grateful that we could recognize together and remember again the Lord’s love for us.

So why now? Why is this the experience the Lord wanted me to share with you today? I hope that you have received or will receive an answer to this question through the power of the Holy Ghost. What good thought and feeling have you had as you’ve heard me share? I encourage you to take a moment to write it down.

I will share a few of the truths that the Spirit has taught me through this experience.

Not all the entries in my notebook have a follow-up story. For ten years I was unaware of the effect that a prompting had had on that young woman. But my lack of knowing or seeing the effect did not change its occurrence. I have seen enough to know of a surety that every time I act in faith on a prompting from the Lord, His purposes are accomplished.6 I don’t need to know His purpose to be obedient,7 and I don’t need to see His purpose accomplished for it to happen. I am willing to go forward in faith and leave the outcomes to Him.

Banana trees are common where I live in Sri Lanka. They have soft trunks, which are easy to cut with a knife, but no one hurts the banana tree because it gives fine fruit.
Many years ago when I was small, there was a terrible storm. When it finally ended, I went outside and saw that one of our banana trees had blown over; it was uprooted and stripped of leaves. I thought cutting the trunk of the ruined tree would be fun, so I went to the house and found a knife. But just as I was about to strike, my grandfather stopped me.
“You mustn’t hurt the banana tree,” he said.
“But why?” I asked. “It’s not good anymore, and it would be fun.”
My grandfather said nothing but beckoned for me to follow him. He told me to cut a big stick. Then he brought me back to the yard where the banana tree lay. Though it appeared useless, we went to work pulling it upright. Once the trunk was straight, we braced the frail tree with the stick.
“Anton,” my grandfather said, “I want you to watch this banana tree every day and make sure it stays straight. Every day you will need to water it and give it nourishment.”
So every morning I checked the banana tree to make sure the trunk was straight. Every day I filled a water bucket and carefully poured it around the roots. I was diligent in giving the tree the nourishment it needed.
Soon there were blossoms and, shortly after that, bananas. When the fruit was ripe, Grandfather handed a banana to each member of the family. I watched with pleasure as they peeled and ate them. No bananas ever tasted as good as those, and it brought me joy to see my family enjoying them.

Elder John R. Lasater, formerly of the Seventy (1987–92), told of an incident that occurred while he was traveling in Morocco. A car had injured one of the lambs belonging to a shepherd, and according to local law, the shepherd was entitled to 100 times its value. His interpreter said, “But the old shepherd will not accept the money. They never do because of the love [they have] for each of [the] sheep.” Elder Lasater then observed the old shepherd pick up the injured lamb, place it in a pouch in the front of his robe, stroke its head, and call it by name. The interpreter told him, “All of his sheep have a name, for he is their shepherd, and the good shepherds know each one of their sheep by name.”

Elder Lasater continued, “Do we understand the personal nature of the shepherd’s call? … Do they know us as true shepherds who love them, who willingly and freely give time and attention to their needs, and in that marvelous process, instill the confidence and security so greatly needed in God’s children today?” (“Shepherds of Israel,” Ensign, May 1988, 74–75).

What about our children? Do they hear exclamations of joy and hope in the gospel? After a Primary lesson about Joseph Smith’s First Vision, the class was asked to draw pictures to take home and share with their families. The children had been taught about the darkness Joseph experienced before the appearance of the Father and the Son. A six-year-old girl picked up a black crayon and started to draw. She colored the bottom and up one side of the page as dark as she could. When her teacher asked her about the picture, she said she was drawing Joseph Smith in the darkness.

Her teacher inquired: “Do you know that when Heavenly Father and Jesus appeared, all the darkness had to leave? Heavenly Father and Jesus are always more powerful than Satan, and They will protect you.” The child turned back to her paper. In the top corner, she drew an outline of two figures; and then, trading her black crayon for a bright yellow one, she filled the rest of the page with light.

Mateo was playing the best soccer of his life. In the preseason, he’d scored five times. His passes were crisp, his defense superb. He was popular with fans, teammates, and coaches.
“So why not relax a little before the season opener?” he thought. The next week he took it easy. He arrived at practice just as it was starting and played with less than his best effort. “It’s OK,” he thought. “In the game, I’ll turn it up a notch.”
But the night before the match, friends came by. He stayed up late, then slept in, and barely arrived as the game was starting. When the coach asked what was wrong, he brushed it off. He couldn’t remember the game plan, but it was too late to go over it again. “I’ll just have to rely on what I did last week,” he said.
The game did not go well. Mateo tried to blame teammates, coaches, and officials. But he knew in his heart that it was his fault. If you’re into sports, you know why: if you want to play well, you prepare all week long. Then when the real game comes you’re ready to take the field.
By the way, after one bad week, Mateo returned to proper preparation and strengthened his season. Each week he focused on the basics and got ready all week long. From then on, he came to games ready to take the field.

Most of the time Ben liked to share. He liked to share Daddy’s toast and Mom’s cookie. He liked to share Mike’s football and Anne’s book. He liked to share Max’s wagon.
But Ben did not like to share his cool cars, not even with Max. “Mine!” Ben said.
Ben filled his hands and pockets with cool cars. He hid them in the corner and under the couch pillows. If Max wanted to play with him, Ben felt angry. “My cool cars!”
One day Mom pulled Ben onto her lap. She gave him a hug and a kiss. “Does Daddy share his toast with you?” Mom asked.
“Yes,” Ben said.
“Does Mommy share her cookie with you?”
“Yes.”
“Does Anne share her book and does Mike share his football with you?”
“Yes.”
“When you play with Max, does he share his wagon?”
“Yes.”
“When we share with you, we feel happy. You feel happy too,” Mom said. “If you share your cool cars with Max, you will feel happy, and Max will feel happy. You can play together, and you won’t feel angry anymore.”
Ben stayed on Mom’s lap for a minute. Then he got down and took two of his cars out of his pocket. He gave one to Max. Ben smiled, and Max smiled. Ben didn’t feel angry anymore. Sharing made him feel happy.

In 2009 I was in Washington D.C. with the world foundations teaching team visiting sites and learning things related to our curriculum. We attended Easter Mass at the Cathedral of Saint Matthew the Apostle. Later in the day we returned to the cathedral to take a closer look at the interior and to have a chance to take some pictures at the invitation of the clergy there. As I was standing in the nave admiring the beautiful and symbolic artwork behind the altar, I noticed a woman entering who looked very troubled, even distraught. She humbly knelt between the pews in prayer for quite a long time and then proceeded to one of the confessional booths with tears flowing from her eyes where she was attended by a priest. Sometime later, she and he emerged. She had a look of great relief as if a heavy burden had been lifted. The priest embraced her and they spoke for several minutes outside the confessional. The love and care of the priest for her was very apparent. As I watched this scene from across the cathedral I felt an overwhelming impression from the Spirit that this woman was an example of true repentance and that the priest was an example of true forgiveness and love. I learned a deep lesson about humble repentance, forgiveness, and love from a Catholic parishioner and her priest.

We know what is right. A few years ago my wife, Kathy, was with our grandchildren while their parents were away. Our four-year-old grandson gave his little brother a strong push. After consoling the crying child, she turned to the four-year-old and thoughtfully asked, “Why would you push your little brother?” He looked at his grandmother and responded, “Mimi, I’m sorry. I lost my CTR ring, and I cannot choose the right.” We need to be careful because excuses can impede our progress.

Cami felt her mother’s arm around her shoulders. As she wiped away more tears, she couldn’t help but notice how beautiful the cemetery was. The warmth of the sun felt good on her swollen eyes and calmed her as people came across the grass to hug her and her family once more.
“Give yourself time, Cami,” Sister Bowen, her Primary teacher, said. “These things take time.”
Cami nodded without really listening. She was thinking about how strangely peaceful it was here. It was like those pictures of Easter morning she had seen in Primary—the beautiful flowers, the smell of the lilac bushes, the breeze in her hair. It was very different from the hospital room where she had watched her father take his last breath. There, it had been like another planet with a room crowded with people who loved him and didn’t want to let him go, everyone softly crying and hanging on to whomever stood nearby.
“It isn’t supposed to happen this way,” she thought. “Dad was much too young to die. Dads aren’t supposed to die when you’re only ten years old.” But he had died.
She saw movement from the corner of her eye and looked just in time to see a white bunny and then a speckled one hop and stop, hop and stop from behind a gravestone, their noses twitching in the air. Then they scurried safely under some bushes.
“Are you ready to go, Cami?” Mom’s voice was tired. “We’ll visit here anytime you want to, sweetheart.”
Cami nodded. But as she rode in the car with her brothers and sister, she wanted right then to turn around and go back to the cemetery. Home reminded her of Dad when he was alive. Home made the sadness seem too huge to hold. She thought of Sister Bowen’s words, “These things take time.”
“How much time? How can I survive till then, whenever then is?” She forced herself to think good thoughts. Thinking about Jesus, about His Resurrection, and about the promise of her dad’s resurrection helped.
At home, she just sat all afternoon, not sure of what to do or how to feel or of how long before the next tears would fall. “Will I ever stop crying? What will it be like to have birthdays and Christmas and go on vacation without Dad? To have dinner, to go to church, to have family prayer without Dad?”
As evening came, the sadness seemed even bigger. She didn’t feel like praying, but she went ahead anyway, in her heart.
“Please, Heavenly Father, help me. I feel so sad and lonely. I know that I’ll see Dad again. I know that Jesus was resurrected after He died, and I know that someday Dad will be resurrected, too. But that’s someday. What about now? How do I get through today? Please help me know what to do to stop hurting so much.”
As Cami ended her prayer, she heard Mom calling everyone together for family prayer. Without even thinking, she went to Dad’s bedroom closet, pulled down his Sunday jacket, and put it on. It was gigantic on her ten-year-old body, but it was Dad’s. It felt like him, it looked like him, it even smelled like him. She pulled the collar up around her face and took in a deep breath. She felt safe. Now she could feel like he was near during family prayer.
When she went into the living room, the rest of the family was already kneeling. They looked up and stared at her. She didn’t care. She just went to the couch, knelt, and bowed her head.
No one started to pray, so she peeked to see what was happening. Her family was gone—but just for a minute. One by one, they came back. Her big brother had on Dad’s slippers. Mom had on his robe. Little Jimmy clomped in wearing Dad’s big shoes, and her older sister had on Dad’s favorite sweater.
Everyone knelt as Mom began to pray. She thanked Heavenly Father for the beautiful funeral services and for all the love that friends and neighbors had shown them. She thanked him for the good memories with Dad. And she thanked Heavenly Father that they could feel Dad close by.
It wouldn’t be easy with Dad living in heaven instead of at home with them, but for now—for tonight—with something he had worn close to each of them, waiting to see Dad again would be a little bit easier. For Cami, it was like being wrapped in his arms—just for now.

When our last grandchild was born, Sister Swain and I were invited in for the delivery. When our daughter-in-law's siblings came to the hospital to see their sister and first niece, they were all so quiet and reverent. Each one seemed to sense that something was different about that occasion, that it was sacred. They all spoke in hushed tones and no one had asked them to. Maybe the same hush and reverence occurred as the shepherds entered the stable where the Christ Child was born.

Trying to find his father’s golf balls, which he had lost, is one of Michael Antone Neider’s first memories concerning the development of his faith.
Growing up in the small farming community of Tyhee, Idaho, he had sneaked his father’s golf clubs out of the garage and hit all the golf balls into their horse pasture. “I had no idea it would be so hard to find those balls in the tall grass. I felt a pressing need for divine help. After praying I went back out and found all but one of them, as well as a never-to-be-forgotten lesson that God loves me.”
Brother Neider says he’s not sure if the Lord would help him find those balls today. “As I’ve learned and grown, the Lord has expected more from me. I feel He has taught me to use more wisdom and faith in moving closer to Him.”

But first, with regard to the basic principle, let me tell you of an experience in which I personally learned from a mistake.
The general lesson I learned from this mistake concerns the importance of preparation. More particularly, I learned that when you argue a case in the United States Supreme Court you can never prepare too much.
One of the customs in the Supreme Court is that lawyers arguing cases for the government always appear in formal attire called a morning suit, consisting of striped pants, a vest, and swallowtail coat. I bought such a suit from a fellow who left the solicitor general’s office at about the time I joined it. He was nearly my size but a little bigger around the middle. Following my first argument Janet told me she thought my argument was all right, but that my hair kept falling down in my eyes and my pants were baggy. She told me to bring the pants home so she could fix them.
My next argument a month later involved an important constitutional issue, citizen and taxpayer standing to bring constitutional challenges in federal courts. The morning of the argument, as I was changing into my government lawyer uniform, I tried to anticipate the questions that I might be asked. I remembered that Justice Harlan in a dissenting opinion in a case called Flast v. Cohen had suggested what he characterized as a possible Hohfeldian analysis that might be applicable to this citizen standing issue. I didn’t remember precisely what he had said, and my first inclination was to reread that opinion before I went to the Court. But then I said to myself, “No, it’s just an abstract theory in a dissenting opinion, no subsequent opinion has even acknowledged it, and the briefs don’t discuss it. No one is going to ask me about it, and, besides, I need the extra time to apply some safety pins to my pants and comb my hair just right and then spray it.” I had forgotten to take the pants home to Janet for alterations.
It was not until after my argument time had expired, and I was in the process of sitting down, that Justice Stevens said, “By the way, Mr. Solicitor General, what is your view of Justice Harlan’s theory in Flast v. Cohen that there may be a Hohfeldian analysis applicable to the citizen standing issue?”
Well, if you read the transcript of my answer to that question, it will remind you of a high foul ball hit back behind home plate and out of play. The batter was not put out, but no runners advanced. Then, when I returned to my office, the first thing I did, of course, was to read Justice Harlan’s opinion, something I should have done two hours earlier. You can imagine my dismay when I discovered that Justice Stevens’ question was a home run ball, which I should have hit out of the park. But all was not lost. Three separate people came up to me after that argument and told me how nice my hair looked and how well my pants fit.

Recently I met an intelligent young man with outstanding parents. There are exceptional material and spiritual resources available to him. He is undecided about a mission. He attends a community college because it is easier than going to a university. In his free time he only does those things that he likes to do. He doesn’t work because he doesn’t need to, and it would take time away from his pleasures. He took seminary classes to pass them without much thought of how he should personally apply the knowledge gained. Finally I asked:

Can I speak to you from my heart? I don’t want to offend but rather to point out something. You are making choices today that seem very reasonable to you. They seem to give you what you want: an easy life with abundant enjoyment and not much sacrifice on your part. You can do that for a while, but what you don’t realize is that every decision you make is narrowing your future. You are eliminating possibilities and options. There will come a time, and it won’t be too distant, where you are going to spend the rest of your life doing things you don’t want to do, in places you don’t want to be, because you have not prepared yourself. You are not taking advantage of your opportunities.

I mentioned how everything I treasure today began to mature in the mission field. Missionary service is not something we do for ourselves. We have our agency. We can choose what we want to do. Yet, for me, the greatest growth and preparation for the future that most youth have today is gained in a mission. There they focus outside of themselves on other people. They draw close to the Lord and really learn His teachings. They find individuals interested in the message but not sure of its worth. They try with every capacity—prayer, fasting, and testifying—to help that person change his life. That’s what a mission does when it is done selflessly, as many here can testify. I felt impressed to give this young man a blessing. As he walked out of the room, I prayed earnestly that somehow the Lord would touch him to choose the right priorities. Otherwise his progress will be limited and his happiness short-circuited.

One Monday in November I was helping my dad change the oil in the car when the Blanchards drove off, then came back so quickly that I couldn’t figure out where they could have gone.
“Where’d you go last night?” I asked Ben the next morning.
He got a funny look on his face. “Oh, somewhere,” he answered.
I couldn’t believe it. Ben always told me where they went! “What is this, some kind of secret mission?”
Ben half-laughed, half-choked, “Sort of.” He looked behind him and then leaned toward me and whispered, “Becky made me promise not to tell anyone.”
I spent the next week trying to puzzle out what the Blanchards could have done that Becky wouldn’t want anyone to know about. Had they discovered gold or silver? Were they rehearsing a circus act? Or maybe they were plotting to take over the world!
The next Monday the Blanchards stayed home. I was outside with Dad again, helping him replace the porch light. We were nearly done when a car came up the street. I was instantly alert because we live on a dead-end street, and we hardly ever get strange cars on it. Even more mysterious, this car was creeping along at a snail’s pace. As soon as the car passed our driveway, its headlights blinked off. But the car kept on going and stopped just beyond the Blanchard’s house.
I nudged Dad. “Something fishy’s going on here,” I whispered.
We tiptoed to the hedge that divides our property from the Blanchards’ and watched. A figure got out of the car and crept up the driveway to the Blanchard’s porch. He—or she or it—placed something by their door, pressed the doorbell, and scooted down the driveway.
Dad squeezed through the hedge and grabbed the skulker’s jacket. “What are you doing?” he asked.
I squeezed through the hedge, too, and ran up to the door while Dad marched the boy—we could tell that much now—up the driveway behind me.
By the time Dad got to the door, Ben and the rest of his family were crowding around the door, wide-eyed.
“Do you know this boy?” Dad asked.
“It’s Frank Adams,” Mr. Blanchard told us.
Frank was absolutely crimson. He bent down and picked up a plate of cookies. On top of the cookies was a ghost shape cut out of paper. “I just left these,” he explained weakly.
The Blanchards all whooped with laughter. “He was phantoming us!”
“Huh?” Dad and I stared at each other.
“Can I go?” Frank looked desperately at Dad. “Mom’s in the car and probably thinks I’ve been kidnapped.”
Dad let go of Frank’s jacket. “Sorry. I was just trying to watch out for my neighbors,” he said, shaking his head as Frank rushed down the driveway.
I was dying of curiosity. “What was he doing?”
Becky sighed. “Different families in our ward—our church congregation—have been going around on Mondays and secretly leaving treats on other people’s door-steps. We say that the Family Night Phantom left them.”
Dad and I stared at each other again and raised our eyebrows.
“Better cookies than vandalism,” Dad finally said with a shrug.
“I bet that’s what you were doing last week. Right?” I asked Ben.
He nodded, embarrassed.

Ifoni had a solid testimony reinforced by some rather miraculous events in his childhood. At eight, while he was playing at sword fighting with a very real and very sharp machete, Ifoni’s eye was cut and damaged. The doctor said he would never see with that eye again. His father and his bishop gave him a priesthood blessing, asking, if it was the Lord’s will, that his eye be healed. Three months later, sight returned to his eye, even though the scar remains. He was also nearly electrocuted when electricity was first brought to his family’s village. Again he was given a priesthood blessing, and his life was preserved. Now, as a teen, he has no doubts about the power of the priesthood. “When I received the Aaronic Priesthood,” Ifoni says, “my mother encouraged me to stay faithful to the Lord’s power. It’s so important to stay clean and be worthy of the Aaronic Priesthood.”

After that it seemed that Brad, Chris, and I were always over at Willard’s place. We worked in his garage, sipped soda drinks sitting on his front step, and talked about sports. We even teased him about his smoking. We told him that every time he smoked a cigarette he was throwing away thirty minutes of his life.
He chuckled and shook his head. “I’ve been at it too long to stop it now.” But after that we noticed that when we came, he would throw his cigarette away.
Then one afternoon as we sat in his garage, he seemed more nervous than usual. He kept rubbing his hands on his pants, scratching the back of his neck, pacing the floor, and shuffling his feet.
“What are you thinking about, Willard?” Brad asked.
Willard shook his head. He tried to smile, but his attempt was more like a grimace. He rubbed the stubble on his chin. “I threw away my cigarettes. I haven’t had a smoke for a couple of days. But I don’t know if I can keep it up.”
For a moment the three of us were quiet. Then Chris jumped up. “You’ll make it, Willard. You just need something to take your mind off it. Do you chew gum?”
“I could chew nails right now.”
“You need to stay busy too,” I offered. “I have an uncle that quit smoking. He said the only thing that saved him was to stay busy. He worked himself until he was exhausted.”
For the rest of the day we stayed with Willard and helped him forget about smoking. It was almost ten o’clock when we left him, but he’d gotten over the urge to smoke. As far as we knew, he never used another cigarette.

Then there was the time they went underground. They heard one day that someone had discovered a cave up a nearby canyon, and from that moment on nothing would do but that they should find a cave of their own. So everyday after school, and all day on Saturdays, they could be seen up in the canyons with their cameras, pretending to be sightseeing and picture taking.

They were really cave hunting and doing it with the same all-out dedication they do everything. They checked out about every crack in every rock in the canyons, looking for the telltale air currents that reveal a cavern behind the crack. They learned to look for the slightest movement in spiderwebs and grasses; they lit matches and held them to cracks to see if the flame flickered under some imperceptible breeze.

For two months they searched, and they were prepared to go on searching until heavy snow made it impossible, and then to start again the following spring. But one day the search suddenly stopped for a moment as they squatted in front of a tiny crack looking at an extinguished match. They fumbled another into flame and held it in front of the crack. It was immediately blown out. Grabbing a nearby stick, they started to dig. The next day they returned with picks and shovels. Their callouses grew during the following days, but the crack remained a crack. They told no one about their search, knowing that many fine caves have been vandalized by thoughtless sightseers.

After 20 feet of hard digging, they came to a little room almost big enough for both of them to sit up in. A couple of anemic stalactites straggled down from the ceiling, but the room ended in a blank wall. They got the matches out, found another breezy crack, and started digging again. Fifteen feet farther in they broke through into a large cavern shimmering with the jeweled spires and daggers that cave hunters dream about. It had taken two months of search and 35 feet of back-breaking, dirty digging, but it was all worth it.

The cave turned out to be about 300 feet deep, fanning out on either side into many smaller rooms. They left a register of their discovery in the largest chamber and covered the entrance back up so that no one could come in and destroy the formations. For several years it was their own private, secret cave, a little magic kingdom that no other human beings had ever seen. Recently, members of a local spelunking club found the signs of digging at the entrance and broke through into the cave, but they too wish to preserve the cave’s beauty and have agreed to keep its location a secret.